


Come Around

by 3raser (kay_elizabeth_roxx)



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012), Inception (2010)
Genre: Crossover, Dominance, Eames and Bane are Brothers, Established Relationship, John and Arthur Just Happen to Look Alike, M/M, Partner Swapping, Post-Movie(s), Submission
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 12:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4834775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_elizabeth_roxx/pseuds/3raser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bane and Eames are brothers, estranged since Bane chose to follow in Talia's footsteps. But when Bane abruptly returns, pulled from Gotham's rubble by John Blake, long-neglected issues on both sides rise to the surface.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://tdkr-kink.livejournal.com/1025.html?thread=732673) prompt at tdkr_anon. Still a work in progress because I got busy, lost the fic in the kink meme, and recently found it again after two years. 0.0

Their flat is dark when he arrives, save for the flickering television screen. Arthur toes off his shoes and quirks a curious eyebrow; it's not often Eames is up this late, and when he is, he's far more likely to be curled up in bed with a book. At the moment, he's reclined in the armchair, still fully clothed by the look of things. His face is layered in shadow, out of reach of the TV's dim light.

“Hey,” Arthur says, quietly, reaching up to undo his tie. “What are you still doing up?”

The figure in the chair stands silently instead of answering, and a trickle of uneasiness snakes its way down Arthur's spine as he catches a glimpse of oily metal.

“What is that ridiculous mask?” Arthur asks, grinning uncertainly. “Is this some kind of game, Eames?”

_“It is not a game.”_

The voice is high and cultured, tinged with an accent he can't quite place, and Arthur has one sharp moment of realization before his briefcase thumps loudly to the floor, hand flying to the butt of his gun. 

Before his fingers even make contact, the man has him crushed against the wall, mechanized breathing loud in his ear. Panic is not an emotion Arthur is familiar with, having always been confident in his own abilities, but a knot rises in his throat nevertheless when he realizes just how much bulk is holding him up against the wall. 

_“So you're Eames' newest plaything,”_ the man says, an amused lilt to his words. _“But you look familiar. Yes, very familiar.”_

The mask covering most of the man's face is nothing more than an indistinguishable tangle of metal tubing in the darkness. This isn't Eames-it _isn't_ -but the familiar, blue-gray eyes boring into his are almost enough to convince him otherwise. 

A sharp elbow to the side barely fazes the man, and Arthur gasps as a large, calloused hand wraps around his throat. It doesn't squeeze, simply holding him there as Arthur unleashes punch after punch. For all the good it's doing, he might as well be trying to bash his way through a brick wall.

The masked man doesn't see Arthur's headbutt coming, however, and reels back with a wheezing gasp. Arthur bucks up, knee driving upwards towards the other man's groin as light floods the room.

Dark spots dance across Arthur's vision at the sudden flood of light, and he blinks heavily, a blurred figure across the room coming into focus. Eames is leaned up against the doorframe in his boxers, Arthur's Glock tapping slowly against his thigh.

“I would let him go now if I were you, Bane,” he says, laying the gun on the nearest side table. Arthur goggles at him. “You're lucky I stepped in before he took you down.”

_“He does have spirit,”_ the man—Bane—acknowledges, letting go of his throat and stepping back a pace. In the light, Arthur can appreciate just how massive the man is, shoulders hulking with knotted muscles. _“He shows no fear. Strange, I never knew you to like capable men.”_

“A daytime house call would have sufficed, by the way,” Eames replies, ignoring his comment, and this time his voice has a bit of venom to it. “Arthur, darling, are you hurt?”

“No,” Arthur spits, stalking over to Eames before reaching into his waistband for his gun. Turning back to Bane, he raises the pistol and flips off the safety. “Now I would very much like to know why I shouldn't blow this man's head off for nearly molesting me in the middle of the night.”

“He's my brother, for one,” Eames mildly replies, and Arthur whips his head around, mouth tightening around the corners. The next sentence is addressed to Bane, watching with muted amusement. “So it seems you still have a taste for the theatrical even after being thrown out of the League of Shadows, hmm?”

_“I have brought no parlor tricks, brother,”_ Bane says, throwing his arms apart in demonstration. _“Your wildcat would have turned me away at the door if I'd come in the conventional manner, yes?”_

Those familiar gray-flecked eyes are sparkling, the only indicator of emotion in a face otherwise covered by dull gray-black metal. The mocking inflection makes Arthur bristle.

“Enough of this shit, Eames,” Arthur demands, gun unwavering. “Why did your “brother” break into our flat in the middle of the night wearing some kind of fucking Halloween mask?”

_“I told you I brought no parlor tricks, Arthur,”_ Bane says, accent wrapping wickedly around his name. _“The mask is quite necessary.”_

A warm arms winds around Arthur's waist, pulling him back against the reassuringly solid weight of Eames' chest as rough fingertips gently pry the gun from his palm. Arthur allows it, wary gaze unflinching.

Eames' voice is still airy, but this close Arthur can feel the tension in his body, something sharp coiled just beneath the surface. “But more importantly.... Why are you here, Bane? I thought I told you to stay away the moment you decided to share ideals with Talia.”

The name draws a visible wince from Bane, although his reply is flat. _“Talia is dead and Gotham is quite whole, I assure you. But someone else is waiting outside.”_

“Talia is dead,” Eames repeats, going silent under Bane's warning glare. A shiver of unease passes through Arthur despite himself—Bane looks like he could snap Eames' neck without much of an effort.

Eames brushes off the moment with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Well, since we're all thoroughly awake now, you might as well bring them up.”

A nod, and then Bane is gone, the door slamming behind him. Arthur takes the opportunity to sink back into Eames' arms, eyes falling shut as his adrenaline level evens out.

“It's all right, my love,” Eames murmurs, nuzzling at the sensitive spot beneath Arthur's ear. “I'll explain everything later, okay? He wasn't going to hurt you.”

“That's reassuring,” Arthur snaps, tilting his neck into the kisses despite himself. Footsteps are pounding up the stairs, then, and Arthur steps away just before the door swings open again. 

Bane steps in first, fur-lined jacket parted to show a ratty t-shirt pulled tight over a hulking chest. If every line of his body weren't so threatening, the sight might have made Arthur a little weak in the knees. 

Behind him is a slight, dark-haired man, eyebrows bunched in confusion. His hair is shorter, his jaw a little bit wider, but Arthur.... Now Arthur understands what Bane meant by _“But you look familiar”._

The man's eyes eventually settle on Eames, lips parting in surprise. “Bane...?”

_“This is John Blake,”_ Bane says, and by the possessive slant to his words, it's easy to guess what their relationship is. _“Former detective of Gotham city.”_

“We have a lot to talk about tomorrow,” Eames warns, eying Blake critically. John stares back confidently, angling himself tellingly towards Bane. “We only have one bedroom here; you'll have to go somewhere else.”

_“Certainly, little brother,”_ Bane agrees, giving a little bow and laying a hand on the small of John's back to usher him out. 

Once he's gone Arthur locks the door and dead bolt, fingers quick and sure. The hand Eames lays on his shoulder is almost enough to make him startle, and he turns around, burying his face against his lover's chest.

“Let's go to bed, hmm?” Eames murmurs, muscular arms wrapping tightly around his waist. This is Eames: all warm, self-assured strength and warm eyes. “Trust me, love. I'll tell you everything in the morning.”

He's tempted to say no, to push himself out of Eames' arms and demand an explanation, but he's just so tired.

In the end, he simply burrows closer and lets Eames lead him to bed. Wrapped up in those familiar, secure arms, it's surprisingly easy to fall asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

“Why didn't you tell me?” John quietly asks, touching his fingertips to Bane's mask. They're in the darkest corner of a hole-in-the-wall bar; the bartender had thrown Bane's mask an odd look before shrugging like he'd seen stranger.

_“I didn't know if we would be welcome,”_ Bane simply replies, briefly encasing John's wrist in his broad, callused palm. His sharp eyes flash to the door. _“I do believe they have arrived. Will you go and keep Eames' wildcat company?”_

“His name is Arthur,” John reminds him, kissing the thumb Bane presses to his lips before heading over to divert Arthur.

“Want to have grab a beer with me?” John asks, tucking his hands into his pockets as Eames continues to the table. Arthur stops, regarding him carefully; John stares unflinchingly back.

“Fine,” Arthur finally agrees, “but no beer. This is a vodka kind of night.” The words are dry, but John can detect a bit of humor around the corners of his eyes.

The bar is lit by soft overhead lights, their reflections glimmering on the counter's varnish. From here, Eames and Bane are nothing more than vague dark shapes. True to his word, Arthur orders vodka, eyes flickering periodically towards the corner of the room.

“Will they fight?” Arthur asks, blunt.

A shrug is the only answer John can give. “We'll see, I guess.”

The next few minutes are passed in silence until John half-smiles, motioning for another beer. “You really aren't going to ask, are you?”

“I have ways of gathering information,” Arthur shrugs, slim shoulders moving gracefully beneath his suit coat.

“Illegal ways, right?” John asks, chuckling when Arthur's face immediately goes stony. “I may be a former detective, Arthur, but I'm also a fugitive from Gotham city. You don't have to worry about me ratting you out for your career choice.”

“It doesn't matter what we do for a living,” Arthur flatly replies, although he is unable to keep the spark of interest off his face. “And Gotham? The city with the Batman?”

“Yeah,” John nods. “I'm sure you haven't heard about it in the news—the government would very much like to keep it quiet—but the city was held hostage for several months.”

“The entire city?” Arthur asks, swinging his bar stool around to face him. “Who in the world managed to pull that off?”

“Bane,” John mildly replies, treated to the first raw, uncontrolled emotional response to cross Arthur's features thus far. In this case, it's surprise. “And his.... Well, I suppose she could be called his ex-lover.”

“That would be the Talia Eames mentioned,” Arthur nods, easily connecting the dots. His eyes are very dark. “Now tell me, why would a detective get tangled with a terrorist, Mr. Blake?”

“You're dancing around the question,” John replies, and smiles as a new, quiet respect settles into Arthur's eyes. “You want to know why Bane wears the mask.”

A moment of loaded silence. Arthur tips his jaw, a challenge. 

“This isn't my story to tell,” John says, “but I'll tell it anyway, because Bane won't, and I have a feeling Eames only knows parts of it. And you won't trust either of us one bit until you've heard it.”

“You're right,” Arthur acknowledges. “And I probably won't trust you afterwards, either.”

“Fair enough,” John shrugs. A progression of memories come to mind, although not all of them are his.

“Bane grew up in prison, put there in order to serve his father's life term. Eames was probably very young when he was taken.”

The prison is sharp in his mind's eye, formed by Bane's descriptions of it: dank stone and rancid air, nothing but a faraway circle of hazy-blue sky to hint at the outside world. And always that ring of stones climbing up towards the light, taunting in their impossibility.

“Talia was born there; her mother died shortly afterwards. Bane took her in and kept her safe, but he knew it wouldn't be for long. A young girl is.... Well, in a prison like that, she is a commodity, something to be fought over.”

That tightens the corners of Arthur's mouth almost imperceptibly, but John can't bring himself to regret his blunt phrasing. If Arthur is to understand, even minimally, things will have to go without a sugar coating.

“One day a fight broke out, and he just. He tossed her up onto the ledge and she went, and she made it out. And he, well.... They destroyed him. Talia returned for him with her father, Ra's al Ghul, but he was never the same. The mask administers morphine; he's in excruciating pain without it.”

They pause as a raised voice filters out from the corner. It's quickly quieted.

“So what pushed him to become a terrorist?” Arthur asks after another few moments. “By the sound of things, he should have just settled down with Talia, right?”

He's being provoked, albeit carefully and efficiently, and John half-smiles, avoiding the bait. Talia is the past; his jealousy has long since passed. “Talia's father was the head of the League of Shadows, the same organization Batman spurned. They believed themselves to be the bringers of “purging fire” that would free cities—Gotham, in this case—of their corruption. Bane was trained, before eventually being excommunicated. Talia, however, remained with him and continued on with her plans.”

Arthur regards him through lowered eyelashes, contemplating his words. John suddenly very much wants to see him loosened up, hair ungelled, face slackened. It would be like watching an entire different person, an impostor wearing the same skin. 

After a few minutes Arthur sits back in his seat, apparently satisfied that he is telling the truth. “But that still doesn't explain why you two are involved, having, ah, very different life goals.”

“That's ah....” John murmurs, pausing as images flicker through his mind in quick succession, a shuffled timeline. Blood trickling down the side of his face; soft, ragged teddy-bear fabric beneath his fingers; a gun pressed to the hollow of his throat; Bane rasping his name into his ear, against him, in him. “That's kind of...private.”

“Hmm,” Arthur says, going quiet and disinterested again. It's in that moment that John notices the pleasant buzz of alcohol flowing through his veins, blurring the edges of his vision just the smallest bit. Words cascade from his lips before his brain can catch up and stop them; perhaps he's had a bit too much to drink.

“He kept me hostage for a while,” he begins, “once he realized how involved I was in the resistance. He.... I.... I think he took an interest in me, you know? Everyone else had a selfish motive somewhere in the mix, and he wanted to find out mine. We talked philosophy and he treated me decently enough, but I knew I was running out of time.”

Infiltrating Bane's room had been a suicide mission, a last ditch effort by a man who would probably die either way. What he hadn't expected to find was a small, ripped bear tucked away in a corner, a small glinting blade hidden away inside. Such a small token of corrupted innocence. 

Blake laughs, suddenly. “The funny thing is, he couldn't fathom me not having a selfish motive, when he himself never had one. In prison he'd only fought to survive, and outside protecting Talia and carrying out her plans was all he lived for. He'd come to believe what the League of Shadows said—that Gotham needed to be cleaned, purged, and the deaths of millions was fair price to do it—but without her, would he have done it? He watched her become twisted by the League, and loved her so much he followed behind.”

"I'm way too drunk for this, by the way," he mentions, scrubbing at his face. This draws what appears to be a genuine half-smile from Arthur. 

A dimple burrows into his cheek, and John stares.

“Anyway,” he mumbles, once that little grin has disappeared, “he pistol-whipped me across the head one night when he found me in his room. When I woke up, he told me his story with the gun pressed to my throat.”

He doesn't tell him about what happened after. The oily gun metal had been slick against his Adam's apple, his tongue wrapping clumsily around an “I want to help you.” Bane's only answer had been to cradle his throbbing temple in one impossibly broad hand and reply with a low, swooping “You can't.”

Their first time, later that night, hadn't been gentle by any stretch of the imagination. The guards had heard his moaning and crying; leaving the next day had been a mess of catcalls and raucous jeering. Bane had taken the nearest whooping man by the throat and casually dropped him to his knees.

That, paired with the possessive hand slid onto the small of his back, should have made him run screaming. Four days later, he was back in his bed.

“I pulled him out of Gotham's rubble after Talia tied,” John continues, tired of talking but determined to finish. “Everyone assumed he was dead, so it wasn't terribly hard to sneak him away. And here we are. That was three years ago.”

“Well, we steal information from dreams,” Arthur announces, apropos of nothing. The look of surprise on John's face manifests before he can stop it, and Arthur gives another almost-grin. “I figure you've earned that much.”

The two dark forms in the corner rise, heading towards them. A half-formed reply is hanging on the tip of John's tongue, but before he can articulate it past the alcohol Arthur is already gone.


	3. Chapter 3

There's no point in staying any longer, as far as Arthur is concerned. The entire story is out in the open, John is half-asleep at the bar, and the two brothers are still deep in conversation. If a fistfight was going to break out between them, Arthur is confident it would have already. And besides, he's tired himself, a light haze of vodka relaxing the knots in his shoulders.

Halfway past the empty dance floor, Arthur pauses to watch a couple emerge from the corner. The bar is mostly empty; he hadn't noticed them there. The man veers off towards the bathroom before Arthur can get a good look at him, but the woman continues towards him, meeting his eyes with a flirtatious smile. 

Her hair shimmers in the soft lighting, a warm, rich brown. Her eyes are very dark. Arthur crosses his arms and waits, impassive.

“Hey there,” she says, the words coming out like a purr. Arthur fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Why are you leaving so early, handsome?”

“I would hardly consider,” Arthur begins, pausing to check his watch, “12:56 'early'.”

“Then why don't you walk me home like a gentleman,” she suggests, playing a little with the collar of his shirt. “You know what can happen to ladies on the street this time of night.”

“Won't your friend in the bathroom wonder where you've gone?” Arthur asks, keeping his face carefully even. He feels—something isn't right here. He's made his disinterest clear, and still he feels like he's being probed.

"We're not exclusive," she shrugs, as if that's an answer to his question. It's a flat-out lie anyway; Arthur can read it in her body language. "I'll text him on the way."

With every passing moment Arthur likes her less and less, so he let's her down the easiest way he knows how.

"But then there's the problem of me being gay," Arthur says, amused by the genuine expression of surprise that flits over her face. "So unless you've got a surprise under that skirt, I'm not interested. Besides, I'm spoken for."

"Oh," she says, red-painted lips curling down in disappointment. "Spoken for by whom? That handsome fellow in the corner?"

"Does it matter?" Arthur snaps, quickly losing his patience. She doesn't recoil, just looks at him.

"I just thought you might like some company until they're finished with their...business meeting?"

"With all due respect, ma'am, I'm not interested," he coldly replies, leaving before she can get another word out.

~

Eames comes home significantly later than he means to to find Arthur stretched out on the couch, laptop in hand.

“Hello, darling,” he murmurs, rubbing a hand across his face. “I'm bloody exhausted. Why don't we go to bed? I'll fill you in in the morning.”

“John already did,” Arthur replies, shutting his laptop and heading towards the bedroom. His voice is clipped.

“What's the matter, darling?” Eames sighs, following him.

“Oh, nothing really,” Arthur says, throwing his watch onto the dresser with an unusual amount of force. “I'm just wondering why, in the five years we've been together, I've never even heard you mention having a brother.”

“Don't be cross, love,” Eames murmurs, wrapping a strong arm around his middle and pulling him back against his chest. “Let's lay down, hmm?”

“I'm waiting,” Arthur says.

“I haven't seen him since I was 23, Arthur,” Eames sighs, laying his cheek against the downy-soft curls at the base of his neck. “As soon as I realized how deeply he was buying into Talia's ideals, I told him to leave and never come back. I certainly didn't know he'd went on to become a terrorist; he could have been dead for all I knew.”

“I get that,” Arthur sighs, tipping his face to allow Eames to kiss up the pale arch of his throat. “I just wish you would have mentioned it at some point. I don't like feeling like we still have...secrets.”

“It wasn't intentional,” Eames assures him, tugging him over to the bed and falling back onto it. “But I'm sorry, love.”

“I know,” Arthur admits, lips pulling up into a smile when Eames tugs him down on top of him. “Mmm, let's not think about Bane anymore for a while, okay?”

“Certainly,” Eames grins, twining his fingers into Arthur's hair and kissing him soundly.

~

Arthur awakens with a start and stares into the blackness. All is silent; he can't quite pinpoint what woke him, but. Something is not right.

Untangling his limbs from Eames' is a challenge. Luckily, the other man simply flips over and gives a light snore once he's free. His silenced Glock is within easy reach on the bedside table; Arthur grabs the cool metal in the dark and slips silently from bed.

A slight rustle in the darkness, beyond the half-open bedroom door. Arthur crouches low beside the door and peaks around it, gun aimed steadily. Just enough moonlight filters in from around the curtains to make out two figures moving quietly through the room.

They aren't John and Bane, that much is certain. Bane's bulk is not easily forgotten, and one of them is obviously female.

A catalog of enemies sits ready in his mind but Arthur disregards it for now, taking careful aim at the male figure. Now is not the time for guessing motives.

The gunshot isn't exactly quiet, even silenced, of course, but the neighbors will almost certainly write it off as a car backfiring or a far away shot. The male figure crumples to the ground with a cry of pain, blood fanning over the carpet. The woman cuts her shriek off halfway through.

Arthur flicks on the light.

~

Eames is jumping out of bed before he's even really awake, conditioned from years and years of being constantly on guard. The adrenaline singes his nerve endings; the shot almost certainly came from Arthur's Glock, but he's never sure, never allows himself to be totally sure.

All of his breath leaves him in a rush when he reaches the living room. A man in a black balaclava is gasping on the ground, a steady pool of blood soaking their expensive wool carpeting. Arthur has his gun pressed beneath the jaw of another intruder, this one a woman. A stylized dark mask falls to the ground beside her, pried off by Arthur's fingers.

“You're the girl from the club,” Arthur says, flat. “Chatting me up for the sake of petty thievery, hmm?”

The girl widens her eyes. Years of experience forging emotions allow Eames to recognize the carefully-constructed farce.... He hopes Arthur does as well.

“I'm sorry,” she sputters, letting tears rise to her eyes. “We've been desperate for months now. He can't find a job. Please don't hurt me!”

“I could just call the police,” Arthur says, pitching his voice as if he's talking about going out to lunch, “but then again, I'm not real keen on having the police poke into my business. So tell me.... Why shouldn't I just shoot you both in the head and be done with it?” 

The gun presses up further into the hollow of her throat and her eyes widen in genuine fear this time. Eames knows Arthur's bluffing, that he won't shoot unless it were entirely necessary, but she doesn't need to know that.

“Or maybe putting a couple of bruises on your pretty face will be enough motivation for your boyfriend to talk?” Arthur continues. Her eyes darken a moment before her boot flashes up in a neat roundhouse kick, and before Eames can move a muscle Arthur's caught her ankle in his free hand and brought her efficiently to the ground.

She lands awkwardly with a little cry of pain. The sound makes the man on the ground balk, raising a bloodied hand in supplication. “Don't, Selina! It isn't worth it.”

“Glad you see things my way,” Arthur says, and Eames feels a pleasurable shiver go up his spine at the way he circles them, gun unwavering, confident in every shift of his musculature. “Now, I'd very much like to know who you are and what the fuck you're doing in my home.”

“Just like we said,” the man on the floor gasps, starting to go sickly pale from blood loss. “We're just trying to get by—“

“Cut the bullshit,” Arthur commands, casually shifting his gun to aim at the woman's—Selina's—kneecap. “Or you'll both have bad knees to contend with.”

“All right, all right!” the man says, placating. “We're gathering information regarding the bombings in Turkey. We know Bane escaped Gotham after the siege, and were just...looking for information.”

A rash of terroristic bombings in Turkey had been splashed over the front page of the newspaper every day for the last week. The assumption is a logical one, albeit wrong.

“That wasn't Bane,” Eames states, mildly. Three pairs of eyes flash to meet his, noticing him in the shadows for the first time. “I don't know who was behind them, obviously, but it certainly wasn't Bane.”

“And who are you?” the man asks, eyes narrowing.

“I don't think you're in a position to be asking us questions,” Arthur reminds him, “and for the love of God, tie yourself a fucking torquinet already. You've ruined our carpeting.”

The man obeys with a precision gained by experience, removing his belt and cinching it tightly above the bullet hole in his thigh.

“Now,” Arthur continues, “I don't give a fuck who you idiots are. Bane is not our responsibility. However, I'll tell you that you're searching for information that almost certainly doesn't exist. I only say this because for some strange reason, I get the feeling that you're actually trying to be the good guy in this situation.”

He pauses, aiming the gun slightly higher in a quiet but abundantly obvious threat. “But if you ever step foot anywhere near our home again, I will not hesitate to blow your brains out. Now get the fuck out before I lose my patience.”

Leaning back against the doorway, Arthur observes the proceedings with stony eyes. Selina helps the man (and they never did get his name, did they) to his feet, wrapping an arm tight about his waist and helping him stagger awkwardly out the door.

Once they're gone he rounds on Eames, eyes blazing. “Where the fuck is your brother?”

“I don't know where he is, love,” Eames soothingly replies, coaxing the gun from his hand and laying it on the coffee table. “Neither of them carry a phone in case they're electronically tracked. I'm sure he'll turn up soon enough.”

“I won't be able to sleep again,” Arthur warns him, but Eames nudges him back to bed anyway, hands soft on his shoulders.


	4. Chapter 4

The door clicks open at 9:47 the next morning. Arthur considers leaving the room, lest he do anything rash, but by the time Bane enters it's already too late.

“The fuck are you playing at, Bane?” Arthur hisses, shoving him hard. The solid wall of muscle, unsurprisingly, doesn't budge. “Why didn't you warn us you might be followed?

_“Followed?”_ Bane intones, moving Arthur aside with one broad palm so John can wiggle through the door behind them. _“Impossible, little one. The authorities of Gotham still deceive themselves into believing I fell during the uprising.”_

“Then how would you explain,” Arthur says, slapping the dismissive hand away, “the two people who broke into my house last night looking for you?”

_“Two people,”_ Bane repeats, curiously flat. _“A man and a woman, I suppose.”_

“Yes,” Arthur confirms, eyes blazing. “So you did know, you asshole!”

_“I assure you I didn't, Arthur,”_ Bane snaps, posture abruptly bristling into something dangerous. _“But unless I am mistaken, last night you had the pleasure of meeting the Batman and his kitten.”_

“That was the Bat--?” Arthur begins, cut off by an inelegant string of curse words from John.

“We have to go, Bane,” John urges, tugging insistently at his elbow. “It's not safe here anymore.”

“He's right,” Arthur nods, face shuttered, “and you're no longer welcome, either. Now get the fuck out of our house, Bane. You've brought us nothing but trouble.”

Flinty eyes settle on Arthur's, and he tamps down the urge to lunge at the challenge, tilting his chin in defiance instead.

_“So now you speak for my brother as well,”_ Bane laughs, a sound like the crunch of splintered glass. _“His precious little kitty with its precious illusions of control.”_

“Bane-” Eames begins, placating, but Arthur ignores him in favor of executing a neat right hook, the words cutting far too close to the quick.

Bane catches his fist before it can make contact with his mask, eyes black with something thicker than rage, darker than respect. Something shivers uneasily down Arthur's spine; he can feel the fragile bones in his grinding together, a subtle warning. _“That was a mistake, little one.”_

The floor shudders beneath them as Bane lifts Arthur off his feet, slamming him into the nearest wall as if he weighed nothing more than a sack of flour. Growling and snarling through the pain, Arthur bucks against his hold, teeth bared in fury.

“Don't!” Arthur snaps, when Eames reaches for his gun. “Don't, Eames!”

_“Independent to the end, hmm?”_ Bane muses, bulging bicep pressed tightly across his throat. _“Or is it that you've been waiting for this, my wildcat?”_

“Waiting for what?” Arthur spits, driving a sharp knee up into his gut. A harsh, mechanized breath rushes through the mask, but his grip is unrelenting. “The chance to take you on?”

_“You don't really want me to go, do you,”_ Bane suddenly laughs, eyes flickering with something like triumphant realization. _“Not peacefully. This thrills you, does it not, my wildcat? I can feel it in your body.”_

“You're delusional,” Arthur scoffs, face red from lack of oxygen and exertion. From the corner of his eye he can see Eames standing tight-lipped, torn between instinct and stop, Eames!, watching Arthur pull out every dirty trick in his arsenal. Defeat sears his throat with every thin inhale; there's simply too much of him, too much tightly-coiled power. Calculated retreats are one thing, but pinned against the wall without so much as a Plan B, Arthur can feel his control of the situation slipping, plucked away thread by thread.

_“You want someone to force you,”_ Bane hisses, cold metal brushing the shell of his ear. _“You hold onto your precious control and relinquish it only under the rarest of circumstances. You let my brother touch you because you trust him, do you not? But danger thrills you. You've never met someone who could make you give up that control.”_

“Don't talk like you know—“ Arthur grunts, face contorting when Bane releases his throat in favor of shoving a thick, corded thigh between his legs. It's an intrusion; everything is close and too-hot, and he. He wants to claw at Bane's back and buck for all he's worth, not so much for the sake of escaping but for the thrill of knowing that he won't escape.

_“Give it up to me, Arthur,”_ Bane coos, mechanized voice gone deceptively soft, metal tubing scraping the edge of his jaw. _“Stop pretending and give up that precious control of yours. Your facade is cracked, can't you see?”_

A large hand rasps down the front of his t-shirt, touching him where he's aching. _“I can feel your arousal.”_

“What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?” Eames thunders, shoving past a shell-shocked John. His shoulders are bulging with rage in a way Arthur has witnessed precious few times, a nerve jumping in his jaw. “Get your hands off of him!”

_“But can't you see that he wants it, brother?”_ Bane rasps, never taking his eyes off of Arthur's face. _“Even the Batman did not fight me this passionately, and yet, can't you see? Your wildcat is aching hard, halfway to heat.”_

Arthur's face burns in shame, eyes lowering defiantly. Like a bullet fired at point-blank range, realization dawns on Eames' face. Lush lips open, close. Open again. “Arthur?”

Their eyes lock for a loaded moment, _I love you_ and _I'm sorry_ and _he's right_ and finally, _it's okay._

_It's okay._


	5. Chapter 5

Heavy silence settles over the room. Eames wants to say _no,_ wants to say _you can't have him,_ not because he's jealous but because he doesn't trust Bane's perception of "too far". Without leverage, the risk is to great. Without some sort of balance....

The idea hits him pleasantly, low in the gut.

“I won't stop you if he wants it,” Eames finally says, eyes darkening a shade when Arthur drags his tongue over his lips, quick and unintentional. “But can you do the same, Bane? Can you trust me with what means the most to you? If you can't, then I don't care what Arthur wants; you won't have him.”

_“What do you mean, brother?”_ Bane questions, although by his posture, it's obvious that he already knows.

In lieu of answering, Eames steps back and wraps a hand around the back of John's neck, casually possessive. The smaller man startles, a blush rising on his cheeks as his eyes catch on Eames' thick lips, lingering there as if he's just noticing their shape.

The tension in Bane's body is incredible, bulging muscles quivering against Arthur's trapped form. His breathes have gone tight and staccato, mechanized releases like the hissing of an air valve, and Arthur can imagine the chaos of his emotions. Arthur's feeling it just the same, watching Eames lay his hands on another man.

“What, brother, can't you play fair?” Eames scoffs, tightening his grip on John and flicking his tongue along the curve of his ear. A gasp escapes John's lips, knees wobbling tellingly beneath him. “I think I know what your man has been missing.”

_“It would appear we both have something the other cannot offer,”_ Bane finally answers, the tension marginally abating from his body. _“If they both consent, then I suppose this is a win-win, is it not?”_

John has regained his composure, only the lightest hint of pink still lingering around his cheekbones. His nod is decisive.

_“Now for the difficult question,”_ Bane says, turning back to Arthur and bristling his shoulders, backing him up against the wall with the bulk of his body. _“Do you have the strength to give yourself up, Arthur? Or will you fight to the end?”_

Eames sees Arthur's muscles cord, fighting to break Bane's hold, and when he can't, he. 

He bares his throat.

Bane growls, wrapping his hand around the pale stretch of skin, but Arthur makes a noise in the back of his throat and shoves at his thick shoulders. “Let me go for a minute, first!”

Startled by the force of his voice, Bane releases his grip and allows him to push away from the wall towards Eames. Wrapping his arms around Arthur's waist and pulling him close against his body is instinctual to Eames by now; he has only a moment to appreciate how that rigid body goes soft for him before Arthur's twining his arms around his neck and kissing him soundly. 

“Mm,” Arthur hums, arching against Eames' chest and looking up at him with soft, dark eyes. The statement in those eyes is clear before Arthur ever says a word: this—this trust without question, this lean, pliant curve of Arthur's body in his arms, this conscious choice to be here—means far more than any snarling admission. That is for the sake of the desire, the secret thrill of defeat. This is—this is for the sake of something more.

“I love you,” Arthur murmurs into his ear, even though a silent understanding has already been reached. “You don't have to do this. Tell me no and I'll listen.”

“I understand why you want it,” Eames murmurs back, lips brushing the shell of his ear, “and he's right. I can't give it to you. I couldn't hold you down and make you, even if it's just pretend. But darling, I love you.”

“And I _will_ be watching,” Eames continues after a moment, a pointed warning, and Arthur's eyes darken with desire before he steps away.

_“I'll be gentle with you, my bird,”_ Bane rumbles, the lie hissing through his mask like radio static. A broad hand catches Arthur's arm and squeezes, fingers and thumb almost meeting around his bicep. _“At least for the moment.”_

~

The night is bitingly cold, slate-gray clouds obscuring the blackened sky. John's face is flushed, half-buried in his scarf. He looks lovely and a little awkward, hands buried into the pockets of his leather jacket.

“Where are we going?” John finally asks once they're tucked into Eames' car, vents blowing cold air. Eames fumbles with the heater controls, considering the question. 

He'd told Bane he'd be watching, but when the bedroom door slammed against the wall, accompanied by a small oh of pain from Arthur, he knew it would be impossible. Not that he feared for Arthur's safety; Bane wouldn't dare put a toe out of line with John in such a delicate position. But it would have been impossible to convince himself that Arthur wasn't being hurt, that he wanted to be forced down and made to wail.

John clears his throat.

“I don't know,” Eames finally answers, pulling out into the street. “Do you like sushi?”

“Uh, sure,” John replies, blinking owlishly, and the look is so comical Eames can't help but grin a little.

Eames takes him to his favorite sushi restaurant, a tiny place tucked into the center of town. A thin crease appears between John's eyebrows when he spots the dishes being brought out from the kitchen, his fingers flipping aimlessly through the menu.

“You've never even had sushi, have you,” Eames accuses, grinning when John avoids his eyes.

“Well, uh,” he replies, fighting back a half-smile, “I'm sure it'll be fine.”

Eames orders them both futomaki.

~

Halfway through his last sushi roll, John leans back in his chair and levels Eames a look. “You could have just told him no, you know. Bane likes to make a show of things, but he really would have backed off if you'd told him to.”

“I know,” Eames acknowledges, shrugging his shoulders and bringing another bit of sushi to his mouth. “But Arthur wanted it, and as long as I knew he was going to be safe, I wasn't going to stop him.”

“You really love him, then,” John says, kindly. “And you've taken good care of me too, I guess. For a hostage taker.” 

“I'm expanding your horizons,” Eames nods, gesturing to the restaurant around them. In the back of his mind, he's remembering the way John's knees had went weak at the touch of his lips.

~

It's gotten even colder outside, flecks of white dancing in the air. Eames exhales a puff of air, the cloud of white dissipating into the frozen night, and looks at his watch.

“I suppose we should get a hotel room,” Eames muses, watching the way John's expression doesn't shift in the slightest. “We probably shouldn't risk returning, hmm?”

A nod is all he gets in response, and they hurry back to the car in silence. The nearest cheap hotel is only a few blocks away, and they arrive within a matter of minutes, pulling into the crowded parking lot.

Eames pulls the keys from the ignition and reaches for the door handle, but before he can grasp it a hand wraps itself into the fabric of his jacket sleeve, stilling him. Dark eyes flicker between his face and the dashboard, eyebrows creasing into a startlingly familiar pinch.

“I know that Bane and Arthur assume that we're going to, um,” John murmurs, trailing off for a moment. “But.... I just wanted to say that you don't have to. I know it was just for show. To make sure you had leverage against Bane, I mean.”

A long pause follows. John fidgets a bit in his seat, picking at a loose thread in his scarf. There's something else here, but Eames can't quite pinpoint it. Not yet.

“Or maybe it wasn't just for show,” Eames finally says, watching John's eyes flash over to meet his in the darkness. “I think you've been wanting something... Something more than just a mouth. And I also think this is about more than just sex, for all of us. We all have some things we need to figure out, and maybe this is the way that's meant to happen. Maybe it's okay if you want it.”

A tiny hitch of breath gives John away, and Eames leans a little bit closer, watching the set of his shoulders carefully. He's tense all over, but... _oh._

Those familiar bow lips are parted just the slightest bit, the oldest and most subtle trick of all. Asking.

“I also think you're lovely,” Eames whispers, and pulls him close for a kiss.

"Mm," John hums, cheeks blooming with heat beneath Eames' fingers. His lips are sweet and eager, a little out of practice. Heat spreads in the small area between them; Eames pushes John's scarf away with impatient fingers and drags him closer, their hips digging sharply into the console between them.

The zipper of John's leather jacket is stubborn, and Eames growls in frustration, letting the other man jimmy it open himself through a laugh. 

"Agh, your hands are cold!" John protests when Eames promptly shoves his hands beneath his jacket, burying half-numb fingers against his waist. Eames laughs, their lips catching again almost without conscious thought, frantic presses settling into something headier.

"Why don't we go inside," Eames murmurs against the warmth of his mouth, "and see where this takes us."

"Okay," John replies, quiet, and they go.


	6. Chapter 6

Eames gets them a room with two double beds.

They shuck off their coats in their tiny suite, stowing them away in the closet before turning towards each other. John blinks once, twice, watching the way Eames' lips pull down at the corners.

“You're already thinking too hard,” Eames laughs, smiling kindly. It's still fascinating to watch, the slow pull of his grin. His eyes crinkle at the corner just the same as Bane's. 

“You must be used to it by now,” John counters. “Living with someone like Arthur.”

“Touche,” Eames replies, taking a step closer. It would be so easy to touch the curve of his lips, to taste him again and wonder if Bane would taste the same—

A warm hand envelops the curve of his waist, not pressing or digging (for once) but only touching, warm and innocent. A slow breath filters out close to his ear, making him shiver. “What do you want, John?”

“I've never been good with asking for things,” John admits, pulling Eames' hand onto his hip and realizing with a shudder of pleasure that tonight, there won't be any taking. “But maybe I could show you.”

Eames hums a little, apparently in agreement, and lets John find his lips.

_Warm_ is the first word that comes to John's mind, and he parts his lips with a sigh of pleasure, letting Eames wrap thick, corded arms around him. His mouth is almost sinfully soft, lipping along the curve of his jaw and kissing the pale arch of his throat.

They make out for what feels like an eternity, gasping short, sharp breaths into each other's mouth. A little growling noise has begun to vibrate deep in Eames' chest, rising in volume as he grows hard against the cradle of John's hips.

“C'mere,” Eames rumbles, collapsing heavily onto the edge of the bed and pulling John down into his lap. Somewhere along the way John's legs get tangled; he laughs as he clumsily rearranges them, wrapping his arms around Eames' neck and pressing up into the lushness of his mouth.

The threadbare fabric of Eames' t-shirt is soft beneath John's palm, fingers trailing down his chest to tease the edge of his jeans. John's aching to touch him, but he purposefully draws out the moment, fingertips tracing the soft trail of hair just below his navel. Maybe for once his passion won't be lost in a mad rush of sensation.

Eames groans when John finally slides his hand down to cup his groin, rubbing the hot bulge of him through his jeans. The hands on his hips tighten, pressing bruises as teeth latch onto his neck, rough and demanding, and—this isn't what he wants. Not this. 

“Eames,” John murmurs, beseeching, hands sliding down to pry at the fingers grasping roughly his hips. 

“What?” Eames asks, pupils huge with desire, and then...oh. He understands.

“Oh,” Eames mumbles, loosening his grip and sliding his hands up to cup John's face instead. Long, dark eyelashes flutter against the bridge of Eames' nose as he presses a kiss to John's cheek, a simple gesture. “Of course.”

Warmth floods John's stomach when Eames kisses him again, unbuttoning his shirt with unhurried fingers. It's different this time: soft and deep, achingly slow.

“Get your jeans off, lovely,” Eames murmurs into the bare curve of his shoulder, lips caressing the gentle slope. Maneuvering out of his lap is difficult, Eames continuing to suck kisses down the side of his throat as they fumble out of their pants. 

A shudder runs the length of John's spine; the room is chilly, at least until Eames coaxes him back down into his lap and envelops him, hands dragging up the curve of his waist.

“Bane never touches you like this; is that it?” Eames whispers against his ear, although John can tell he already knows, that he's already read him like a book. “You've been wanting someone to be gentle with you, hmm? Make love to you?”

A quiet nod against Eames' shoulder is the only response John can manage at first, unsure of what to say. He doesn't want to offend Eames, doesn't want to say that he's imagining Bane touching him like this, softly, reverently. 

“Yeah. Bane is... I can't say that he isn't devoted to me, because he would—he has—followed me around the world and back. But he always wants things to be some kind of struggle. And I understand why he does it, that's the worst thing. I understand that it's difficult to be gentle with someone after being twisted like that, you know? But that doesn't stop me from wanting it, I guess.”

“You should tell him,” Eames says, pushing John's chin up with two fingers to meet his dark, downcast eyes. “I'm sure he would try for you, if you asked. Because the thing is, duckling, I can't make love to you. I can be careful with you just for tonight, and make sure you feel good, but I can't make love to you properly. Bane's the only one who can.”

“I know,” John nods. Eames' adoration for Arthur has been abundantly obvious from the start, obvious in every glance and quirk of lips. “I never expected anything more from you. I just don't know how Bane will react to it. I don't.... I couldn't stand it if he left.”

John pauses, lowering his eyelashes. “I think if Bane had never been put into that prison, he would have turned out very much like you. Maybe that's the reason why...I like you so much. You remind me of what he could be, one day.”

“We don't have to do this,” Eames says, thumbing across his bottom lip. “I didn't get a room with two beds just to look heterosexual in front of the employees, you know.”

John grins despite himself, a dimple burrowing into his cheek. “I know. But I still.... I want to know what it's like. So I'll know later. When it happens.”

“You'll know,” Eames says, but pulls him close anyway, lush mouth slipping over his like a caress.

~

Arthur's bed is large and springy, a huge downy-soft affair Eames insisted on buying for their new flat. It wasn't cheap--it never squeaks and hardly shakes, even when Eames is fucking him hard and deep, knuckles clenched white on the headboard.

Next to Bane's huge bulk, it is beginning to look woefully inadequate.

A large, calloused hand wraps possessively around Arthur's hip, a soft buzz of static reverberating against the shell of his ear. _“Are you going to make me force you down, Arthur? Spread you out like a mewling little kitten, clawing at my back for the last vestiges of your precious control?”_

“Shut the fuck up,” Arthur snaps, suddenly, inexplicably enraged. Bane speaks as if he thinks Arthur is afraid of losing control. Of change. In a job situation, yes, of course, but at home—he's not. He's not.

_“Now, duckling,”_ Bane warns, voice a steel-edged purr. His fingers clench tight around Arthur's hip, pressing bruises against the bone and bringing a quickly-stifled cry of pain to his throat. _“Watch what you say. You're the one taking orders tonight, and it would be wise not to forget that.”_

Another barb is rising on his tongue—Arthur can feel it—but before he can articulate it Bane's got a hand around his throat and a knee pressed into the small of his back. The comforter is hot against his face; Arthur gasps into it and throws his weight, trying to dislodge the hot, crushing form on top of him. Bane doesn't so much as budge, holding him stationary with frightening efficiency. 

For the first time, Arthur really, truly feels it: Bane could crush the life out of him in an instant, with barely a flick of his wrist. Every breath of air sucked into his struggling lungs in this moment is there because Bane allows it to be. 

The base of his spine is in agony, crushed beneath Bane's blunt knee, and Arthur feels his carefully organized world unthreading around him with alarming rapidity. 

“Fuck,” Arthur gasps, chest burning with the lack of oxygen as Bane's hand loosens around his neck and drifts up to grab his hair instead.

_“I could break you,”_ Bane states, knee sliding slowly off of Arthur's back. _“I could snap your spine as if it were a twig, or the fragile wing of a sparrow. But today I think I'll take these clothes off and have you, instead.”_

Rough hands tear the clothes from his body, fingernails raking down the creamy-white expanse of his back. Bane's massive thighs are denting the bed on either side of Arthur's hips, and Arthur throws his pelvis back in a last-ditch attempt to dislodge him, grunting with effort.

_“Now, now,”_ Bane chides, catching his hips, _“if you are so eager for me to have you, you need only to ask.”_

Arthur's cheeks heat at the taunt, loose bangs obscuring his vision. His cock is heavy between his thighs, hard already, and he surges up again, the bare crest of his ass riding the length of Bane's hard prick. And god, he's big and thick and there, throbbing hard against him.

Bane's cargo pants land crumpled on the floor a moment later, a deep growl vibrating the bed beneath them. 

_“My brother and I make you feel vulnerable in two very different ways, don't we, my wildcat,”_ Bane murmurs, rubbing his slick cock into the soft heat of Arthur's inner thighs. _“But we both make you fear the dismantlement of your carefully constructed universe. Both of us are factors you could not anticipate, could not plan into your little world ahead of time. The only difference is that I, unlike Eames, am not afraid to take what I want.”_

A protest rises to Arthur's lips, instinctual— _you're nothing like Eames_ or _you don't know what you're talking about_ —but then the head of Bane's cock finds the pucker of his hole, teasing, and Arthur stops thinking altogether.

~

The breaking of glass is a beautiful thing, Bane thinks. It is never gentle; shards splinter apart into the air, sharp-edged and biting, only to crumble to dust against the pavement. 

On his hands and knees, shudders traveling the length of his spine, Arthur seems very much like a shattered masterpiece, broken apart beneath a force greater than himself. 

Bane twists his fingers cruelly into the other man's dark locks, dragging him around to crumble before his kneeling form. Bow lips part on a gasp, eyes blank even as they meet the dark ones behind the mask. The fracture of this man's control is sweet, sweeter than Bane ever could have imagined, rolling down his spine like a caress.

The submission is not, however, the headiest part; it is the knowledge of what comes after. His precious bird has taught him many things throughout their time together, perhaps the most important being that no matter how finely glass is ground, it can always be melted down and formed again.

_“Prepare me,”_ Bane says, wrapping his fist around the base of his cock and lifting it to Arthur's lips. Those lips part, hesitate...withdraw.

_“Would you rather I fuck you dry, kitten?”_ Bane growls, grabbing Arthur's quivering thighs and flipping him easily onto his back. Arthur whimpers at the threat and scrambles up again, closing his legs and mouthing clumsily down the hard plane of Bane's stomach.

_“I thought not,”_ Bane nods, grunting at the first press of Arthur's lips to his cock.

~

Arthur's heart is beating a hectic rhythm against his ribcage, throat locking up as his lips slip down around Bane's thick cockhead. He's big, the biggest Arthur's ever had, thick and uncut, and just the girth of him is enough to make him gag and withdraw. Fingertips are still digging into his neck, relentless.

The shaft of his cock glistens with precome and spit, brushing the curve of Arthur's cheek as he gasps. He's the best fucking pointman in the world; this kind of panic is unacceptable...under _any_ circumstances.

His palm wraps around the base of Bane's cock, squeezing as he takes a deep breath and tries again. He works his fist over the flesh for a while this time, sliding back the foreskin to reveal the slick, purpling head. The sight draws an involuntary groan from Arthur's lips; he's suddenly very aware of his continuing arousal, pulsing between his thighs.

Arthur's soft pink tongue finds the rim of Bane's foreskin, slipping just beneath to trace the curve of his cockhead. Above him, Bane is watching with dark eyes, silent and still save for the fingers twisting into his hair.

_“Ah ah, my duckling,”_ Bane laughs, his grip suddenly tightening. Arthur whines in pain, the noise muffled against Bane's cock as he lips up the shaft. _“Control will not serve you anymore. Only the release of it will free you.”_

Then the thick cock in his mouth is suddenly blocking his airway, hitting the back of his throat. A gag wells up, undeniable, and he chokes around the thick length, saliva gathering at the corners of his mouth before slipping down the shaft. He tries to pull back but can't, not against the hand in his hair. 

Wetness beads against his dark lashes, Bane's mask gone hazy through a layer of moisture. Heat floods his damp cheeks, his body instinctively humiliated by the weakness. He's thrashing, heart thundering wildly in his chest; he can't breathe; it feels a bit like drowning only worse, every frantic thought compounding and expanding and--

And suddenly, he understands.

Melting into the sheets and clenching his hands weakly against Bane's thighs, he allows himself to flower open beneath him. Immediately it's easier to breathe, to flow with the pace of Bane's thrusts and simply let the thick cock glide over his tongue. 

Without his mind's consent his hand drops down to rub between his legs, a groan welling up in his throat. Bane chuckles and slows his thrusts, pulling back to rub his slick, leaking cockhead against Arthur's swollen lips.

_“See how freeing the release of control can be, my wildcat?”_ Bane murmurs, slipping his cock back in for a moment. Arthur slurps around it, mindless. _“You crave it, no matter how you fear it. And sometimes the things we fear the most must be embraced.”_

Arthur sits back on his haunches, his throat dry, waiting for Bane to move in. And move in he does, a force of nature, taking Arthur's shoulders in his broad hands and shoving him unceremoniously backwards.


	7. Chapter 7

The world is very quiet, blanketed in a fresh layer of glittering slush. John's gasps echo back to his ears as if rebounding off the stillness; they are separate worlds and won't be mixed. At least, not right now.

One of his hands is buried into his own hair, the other into Eames'. Bristly cheeks nudge his thighs further apart, buried between them. John bites his lips, legs quivering against Eames' shoulders as he resists his orgasm. It's been a very long time since he's had this kind of pleasure and Eames is being downright cruel, pursing his lips against all the right places and not bothering to stifle his lewd noises.

“Ah, ah,” John gasps, arching against the white sheets and grunting in frustration when Eames withdraws, turning his face to suckle his thigh. Eames smiles against him but doesn't respond, rumbling low in his throat.

“You told me to go slow,” Eames reminds him, chuckling lowly. John rolls his eyes and knocks him lightly in the ear with his knee.

“Yeah well, 'going slow' and 'stopping' are two different concepts,” John reminds him, yelping when Eames delivers a sharp nip to his thigh.

“You're mouthy,” Eames observes. “But at least you leave me to my work.”

“Mhmmm, weren't you doing something?” John asks, pressing his fingertips against Eames' lips.

“I don't know; I've quite forgotten,” Eames teases, before finally taking mercy on him.

“Oh my god,” John breathes. The words sound as if they came from someone else, too gravelly and desperate to be his own. Soft lips kiss the crown of his cock, suckle around him. John's thighs quiver around Eames' neck, his spine arching off the sheets.

“C'mon, lovely,” Eames rasps, grunting and moaning into the cradle of his hips, and John hovers, trembling, on the brink, legs pressing down into thickly-muscled shoulders. 

The image teasing his consciousness is almost painful when it finally hits him in full force: Bane nestled between his legs, softer, younger, before Talia, before the League of Shadows, before the mask.

John's body twists against the sheets, hands rising to cover his face as he comes. He's horrified by the tears in his eyes, tries to stifle them between his fingers as his hips twitch into stillness. 

Purring groans of pleasure sound against John's thighs, until suddenly they don't. 

“Why are you crying, lovely?” Eames asks, unbearably soft, sliding up alongside him. Beneath his palms, John scrunches his eyes tightly closed, desperately restraining the feelings in his chest.

“I wish things were different,” he finally whispers. “I wish I had somehow found him before the pit. He won't ever love me that way. He can't.”

“Don't be dense,” Eames murmurs, and John drops his hands, looking up at him in surprise. “He turned away from a lifetime of hatred for you. How intense must a love like that be, to unchain a man from years of darkness?”

Eames smiles. “All you need to do, lovely, is help him show it.”

~

Sometime during the very early hours of the morning, John rises from the rumpled bed and makes a beeline for the bathroom. After relieving himself, he stumbles sleepily back towards the bed and grunts, having accidentally kicked something small and hard across the floor.

After a fair bit of futile scuffling, he locates the offending object and bends down to pick it up, squinting. It's a small, simple black box, almost like a....

He flips it open to reveal a thin gold band, stained silver by the moonlight.

"So you found it, huh," a quiet voice suddenly intones, chuckling lightly when John startles. "It must have fallen out of my pocket."

"You carry this around with you?" John questions after a long moment of silence, his throat tight. Eames nods, face half-obscured by shadow. His smile is a little sad.

"You should just ask him, Eames," John murmurs, fingering the tiny box. "What's stopping you?"

"I'm afraid he'll say no," Eames replies, simple. "He'll say no for safety reasons, or because it will make us too conspicuous, or because it will ruin his independence."

"How do you know that?" John demands. "And to think you've been telling me to believe in my partner's feelings all night. Unless you ask him, how will you know?"

"I can't deal with a "no," John," Eames tiredly mumbles. "And I know that's what I'd get."

"Bullshit," John replies, but sets the ring box down again and crawls back into bed.

"And have you ever considered the fact that maybe he'd say "yes" because he loves you? Idiot," John mumbles a few minutes later, but Eames is already asleep.


End file.
